My Holiday Wish List

I’m getting a bit older, you know? I’m now in my eighth decade, still enjoying life on this beautiful planet. But the spark of wonder from my youth has faded, and the thrill of trying new things and collecting gear is also slipping away. Still, I yearn for adventure, like gliding through fresh snow in quiet woods, just me and the trees and my breath. The satisfying sound of my skis gliding along, pushing and sliding rhythmically, is a dream I cherish. Of course, those old skis are long gone, and my snowshoes are just decorations in a Vermont Airbnb.

Hiking up that hill—the one I climbed so many times—is still a challenge. My body has aged, and while my spirit is strong, I can’t muster the willpower anymore. My labored breath reminds me that I have a metal heart keeping my vital one open. My heart races, too fast or too slow, and I can feel the meds kicking in, telling me to slow down. I’m not going to die here, but the memory of that attack still lingers in my mind.

I dream of my home waters, and in my dreams, I’m drifting flies through familiar pools where I fished decades ago. I’m always on the lookout for that flash of a fish taking the bait. I pick out my favorite special fly from an old box of secrets, choosing the perfect one. It doesn’t matter, they all work. My back cast always snags that low branch, and in my excitement, I snap the special one. It’s not like I don’t have a dozen more. I silently mourn that bug and tie another, only to drop it in the river. I watch it swirl into an eddy, and guess what? A trout rises and eats it! Darn, darn, now I can’t even tie a knot. Casting to a rise and deciding it was too long, too left, too right, I pick up the line and make the same stupid cast again. Good thing it’s just a dream.

I wish I could tell everyone how much I appreciate them before I pass away. I want to see my grandchildren grow and be captivated by the natural world around them. Peace on earth, someday, maybe for just a day.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all!

Not The Hill I Am Dying On

 What matters to you and what matters to me don’t always line up. That’s not a failure of character; it’s just two anglers wading different water. Same river, maybe, but standing in different seams, reading different currents.

We carry different ideals, beliefs, and ethics. Mine weren’t store-bought. They were shaped the same way a good cast is—by repetition, correction, and a few ugly tangles no one needs to hear about. The differences are the point. Uniformity makes for lousy fishing and worse men.

I’ve never been beaten in the ways that matter. I’ve taken hits, sure. Anyone who keeps showing up does. I’ve watched my shortcomings laid out like wet flies on a patch by people who seem to think exposure equals insight. Truth is, I tied most of them myself. I know where they fail and when to change patterns.

I keep an honest inventory of my flaws. Some get trimmed back. Some stay because they still catch fish. What seems to unsettle you isn’t that I have them—it’s that I don’t pretend the river runs clean all the time.

If my honesty makes you uncomfortable, that’s worth noticing. Usually means there’s something rising you’d rather not hook. It’s easier to critique another man’s drift than to admit you’ve been lining fish all afternoon.

This isn’t the hill I’m dying on. I don’t need to win the argument or out-cast anyone watching. I’m content standing mid-stream—boots steady on the rocks, line mended, ethics intact—waiting for the right moment to let the fly swing through on its own terms.

"Unto they own self be true"

Polonius (Hamlet William Shakespeare )

Pick one and dive in!

Mastering any skill is a great achievement. When it comes to knots, practice is key. I remember learning my first one when I was four or five. My dad showed me a square knot to use when I tied my shoes. After a few tries, I nailed it and gave my dad a break from having to tie my laces all the time. It felt so good! Sometimes, I’d end up with a knot that took some kitchen utensils to untie.

Mistakes are just part of learning. My next knot was a simple overhand knot, which led to a cinch knot, then an even better cinch knot. I was happily tying things like hooks on fishing lines. Back then, fishing was a simple game with a cane pole, a piece of cord, a hook, and a worm. Some folks call the worm a lure, but I found calling them garden hackles easier to remember.

A few years later, I learned a few more knots for climbing: figure eight, bowline, bowline in a bight, taut line hitch, timber hitch, and clove hitch. All these were handy for climbing rock walls and later trees. Some were used in camping to attach tarps for shelter, in canoeing to lash packs down, and to attach painters.

I had a job interview where the boss asked me to tie five knots. I did them perfectly and got the job right away. He also wanted me to come in my work clothes so he could see I was serious about my work. He even checked my hands for callouses, which was a bit strange. That’s when my career with trees really started.

Working in trees with valuable things that can’t be moved needed a whole new set of skills and knots. I learned the hard way how much weight a rope could handle and how a knot could weaken it. Using the wrong knot could have serious and dangerous consequences for my life and well-being.

As I grew older, I realized I needed to master a few essential knots, like the half Windsor and a proper bowtie. Those schoolboy clip-on ties are a thing of the past! I should have included the half Windsor along with that square knot my dad showed me. The real skill many men are missing is tying a bowtie. With three weddings one year, I decided to purchase a tuxedo and wear a real bowtie. It took some practice, but I was happy with the result. Later, I wore a bowtie to another family wedding (without a tuxedo) and ended up tying five more that day. No, that’s not exactly the kind of fancy I was aiming for.

My last few knots were the Davy knot, the turle knot, and the perfection loop. Just so you know, the turle knot isn’t actually a turtle. I could go on but I use a whip fishing tool on my flies not a series of half hitches. Crazy glue holds together those salty ones. 

That tux had went to the St. Vincent de Paul, so some lucky dude is probably still wearing it. I hated it, way too big, the tailor did a crap job and the style did last the test of time. Speaking of things, all the tree companies have one thing in common. Their logo T-shirts are a big deal south of the border. Iconic symbols migrant laborers brought back home as souvenirs of their time with the gringos. No more like something to sell at the local flea markets. These days I do own a suit and have a nice linen sport coat, but not very wearable fishing. Maybe a nice Harris tweed jacket and tie for those dry fly moments we all enjoy. Now where did I put that deer stalker hat. Watson?

What’s Font Got to Do with It?

 In all my writing reports, blogging, and texting, the font had little to do with the story or content of a report. Sure, sometimes I got enamored with a certain style, but style is meaningless without content. Content is the driving force behind all writing, so unless you’re an E.E. Cummings, the way the words look on a page matters little unless the font isn’t readable.

I understand that sometimes style or elegance is more important to some, especially since who actually reads these days? We’re all skimming, looking at the pretty pictures, and the words are just in the way. We’ve given our brains a time out from actually thinking and comprehending words. Those damn words just get in my way, taking time away from my daily doom-scrolling and making me engage my brain into thinking. Heaven forbid that I actually have to do some thinking. Critical thinking is gone, ran away, and not to be found anywhere. I’ll just crowdsource everything from medical advice to the best barber, supermarket, and that chicken recipe with the veggies and sauces.

Better leave the thinking to the AI in the sky and don’t be bothered with the simple details like the truth. Too much bother, after all, I’m very busy doing as little as possible. Oh dear, is that me sleeping at an important meeting again? So, I’m off to the market to buy some groceries (great word, just learned it last week). I’ve secured a second mortgage (fantastic rates) to pay for them. Or better yet, go fishing and actually eat my catch. Save big bucks there, and the fish are too many and no one will miss them when they’re gone. 

Making Eyes at You

There are many flies that don’t resemble life. They’re flat, lack sparkle, and usually don’t catch fish. Some of these flies require wild, erratic action to even get a weed to grab on. Among these flies, streamers are the worst. They imitate baitfish, but some are just a hunk of marabou, while others are tinsel. Unless you add something to them to resemble life, they look like the stuff in that little clippings bag. Speaking of which, how many people collect clippings and never use the debris from a tying session? Try not to clip off too much before you start, as extra can be stored on the spools or in those neat little compartments on your tying desk.

The essence of a living being is its eyes, and there are countless types of eyes available. You can find stick-on eyes, bead eyes, dumbbell eyes, and even jungle cock eyes (if you can find them). However, I discovered a unique method for creating eyes using monofilament, a lighter, and UV epoxy.

Step 1: Cut a length of monofilament. For larger eyes, use a larger diameter line. Heat the end of the lighter until it starts to melt, then gently push it down onto a non-flammable surface, such as a piece of cardboard, not your dining room table.

Step 2: Slowly build up the melted end with epoxy and use the UV light to create a larger body for the eye. To ensure the eye is uniform in shape, slowly spin it. Once you’re satisfied with the size and shape, leave a long tag so you can easily tie the eyes onto your fly. If additional color is needed, use a marking pen to add some drama. An alternate method is to epoxy a color bead and build an epoxy head. I used a red glass bead in the photo below.

Eyes in progress

How to Fix All Your Problems (not really)

 No Mojo

I’m sorry to hear that you’re struggling with losing your motivation. It can be a challenging situation, especially when your drive and enthusiasm have vanished. It’s like the old saying goes, “A lie will travel around the world before the truth puts its waders on.” Speaking of waders, I haven’t seen mine in over a year. My kayaks are hanging around in the garage, waiting for some company or at least some TLC. I’ve become quite photophobic. After undergoing three surgeries for skin cancer, I tend to spend less time in the sunlight. Am I turning into a vampire? 

So, let’s talk about sun protection. I wear a wide-brimmed hat and zinc-on-the-face SPF and UV-rated sun shirts. I have the scars to prove it—I’ve spent a lifetime outdoors. Even in winter, too much sun can become a problem sooner or later. My dermatologist is a great person and is very strict about taking care of my skin. Fran Betters said that the best time to fish is in the early morning or evening, which is also the safest time to reduce UV exposure. Did you know that one type of UV radiation can penetrate an airplane or your home? Is there any place that is truly safe? What does “safe” even mean in this context? 

I don’t have a specific answer to rekindling the flame, as everyone is different. Perhaps a road trip to explore new places could be a refreshing change. Taking a sabbatical from fishing might be a difficult decision, but absence truly makes the heart fonder. Feel the wind in your face, the chill of the air, and maybe even the warmth of the sun after a stormy day. Rediscover old skills and hobbies that you’ve always enjoyed but never had the time to pursue. Conversations with my neighbors revealed a common thread among us: a strong sense of community. This sense of belonging can ignite the inner man.